


Blue: The Most Human Colour

by Katy133



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley does detective work, Crowley was an Allies operative (Good Omens), Crowley's Wrestling Statue (Good Omens), Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I ended up researching a lot of art world history, Jumps around different time periods, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Reminiscing, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Blitz, set in present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katy133/pseuds/Katy133
Summary: After a certain point, Crowley tries to collect art that reminds him of Aziraphale and their time together (whilst being in utter denial about it). But art collecting comes with some rather unexpected challenges.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 66





	1. How It Began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired by [Nel_314's](https://twitter.com/Nel_314) painting of Crowley finding a statue of an angel in an artist's studio, looking... forlorn? Longing? Helpless? [See illustration.](https://twitter.com/Nel_314/status/1147234040266858504)

_Eden, 4004 B.C._

After they parted ways, Crawly realised that he would never be able to return to the Garden ever again.

From the shadow of a sand dune, the serpent watched as the angel began filling in the hole in the wall, fitting in large pieces of stone as if they were nothing.

Crawly slithered away, travelling in the direction Adam and Eve had gone. Perhaps there would be something interesting to find there.

As his scales motioned through the sand, the demon thought more about the Garden. He liked it there. There were things to eat, for a start. And it looked so _different_ compared to what he had seen of the rest of the Earth. All sand and lions.

 _Hmm,_ hissed the serpent, flicking his tongue out to smell the desert air. But that was only of what he had seen _so far_. Perhaps there was more to Earth than he thought.

Aziraphale. The Enemy. But quite a nice enemy, when one thought about it.

The snake pictured the first rainfall. He pictured the protective white feathers above him.

In theory, Crawly _could_ return to the Garden if he really wanted to. He had wings, after all, and could scale the wall. And even if the Garden sank into the dunes, he could still return to _where it once stood_ , provided he could remember the spot.

But no, he would never truly be able to return to the Garden of Eden. It just wouldn't be the same without _the angel_.

Crawly paused for a moment and considered this line of thought. Then he pushed it away and slithered forward.

* * *

**Art piece #1: Crowley's Plants.**  
**Fate:** _Collected. In Crowley's flat. Ongoing process._

It started with the plants. But that was unintentional.

By 3004 B.C., Crowley had begun keeping a garden of potted plants. He had quite a collection. Whenever he had to travel, he would try to keep some of the smaller ones in his robe pockets.  
By the 1880s, plant nurseries started to become popular.

By the 1970s, Crowley had learnt through a program on Radio Four that some horticulturists thought that talking to their plants was beneficial.

By 2019, Crowley had come across a conclusion.

 _Eden,_ he thought. _I've made my own reminder of the Garden._

* * *

**The Eagle Statue.**

_1941, London. The Blitz._

Where it started. Where it _really_ started, was with the Eagle.

It was a statue about three feet in wingspan, resting on a stone pedistal that resembled a very, very short Greek ionic pillar. It appeared to have been made of limestone, same as the church walls. The eagle stood in craved flames at its feet, making the bird look almost like a phoenix. It wasn't the most detailed statue of a predatory bird. Crowley had seen better over the years...

But it was unique.

Crowley closed his eyes. He was remembering all of yesterday. The sirens. The smoke. Getting a call from Security Service. Seeing the angel's photo in the report. The drive to the church. Rescuing Aziraphale from trouble. Using his one miracle to summon the bomb instead of saving the holy water...

* * *

He gave the angel a lift home.

Aziraphale was uncharacteristically silent for the entire car ride, clutching the handle of his book bag with a vice-like grip and a thousand yard stare into the horizon. Crowley wondered what was going through the angel's head, but put it down to, _He's had a long day, almost getting shot and discorporated._

Crowley parked the Bentley outside A.Z. Fell and Co. He stepped out and walked around to open the door for Aziraphale. That was when the angel noticed.

"You're limping!"

"It's fine, angel," said Crowley, smiling through gritted teeth and trying to hide it.

"Come into the bookshop." Aziraphale gestured invitingly to the interior of his home.

Finding no excuse to refuse leave his lips, Crowley entered.

The demon looked around the filled bookshelves. He'd missed this.

"Here, take your shoes off," said Aziraphale, motioning to the armchair in his backroom.

Crowley blinked. After the hesitation, he did so. Aziraphale disappeared to the little kitchenette in the back of the shop. Realising what the angel planned on doing, Crowley also took off his black socks, balling them into his shoes and he neatly placed them next to the chair. Unlike Aziraphale, he didn't have to worry about sock garters. He also rolled up his trouser legs.

He inspected his feet. The top looked fine, but the pads of his heels looked like he'd stepped on a hot plate during some sort of tea-making-related incident.

Aziraphale came back with a shallow, metal tub, holding it by its two side handles. It was filled with kettle water, still visibly hot with steam.

After the angel set it down by the demon's feet, he made a downward gesture with his fingers, the steam disappearing as the water was miracled into a more hospitable temperature for Crowley.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. His blue eyes said, _Put your feet in. It's cool enough now._

Crowley did so. And it was.

"There. Is that better?"

"Ngk," said the demon. It feel _nice_. He wondered if Aziraphale had added anything supernatural to the water, or if this was simply the healing effect of a good, restorative soak. He tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. "I should say, thank you, angel," he hummed.

"Not at all. You saved my books." Aziraphale sat down on the sofa opposite, leaning forward.

"That I did," he replied idly.

There was a stretch of silence that was filled only by the bookshop's ticking grandfather clock and Crowley's thoughts of, _I've missed you_.

Eventually, Aziraphale bolted up to his feet. "Music. I'll get some music for us to listen to. You can tell me about what you've been up to all these years. I've got a nice bottle of wine I've been saving..."

As Aziraphale walked to the phonograph, looking through his box of records for suitable music, his back turned, Crowley let his eyes soften behind his shades. He contemplated.

Aziraphale invited him into the bookshop. The angel had him sit in an armchair and soaked his burnt feet in a bucket of water.

That was when Crowley knew. They were okay. They were back on speaking terms. And he was happy.

* * *

The next morning, he returned to the church site.

Crowley scanned the ruins. At first, he _wanted_ to see if there were any traces of the holy water he'd spotted. But unfortunately, it was all evaporated in the fire.

Crowley wilted. It seemed a stretch, but he was ever the optimist. Oh well...

"Oh, hullo." Crowley turned and greeted the eagle statue.

It stared up at him from the pile of rubble. _Hello. Pick me up. I'm been waiting for you._ It was almost comical how perfectly well-preserved it looked compared to everything else.

The process took a lot of sweat, huffing, and swearing, but eventually, Crowley dragged the statue out of the debris and into the wagon attached to the back of the Bentley. The wagon hadn't been there five minutes ago, but there it was nevertheless.

And _that_ was how Crowley became serious about art collecting.

 **The Eagle Statue.**  
**Fate:** _Collected. In Crowley's flat._

* * *

**The Table, Chairs, and Throne.**

_1967, London._

Crowley had never seen the furniture set before. He'd never sat in the throne-like chairs. Never had a meal at the red marble table. Never looked upon the red of seat cushions, the gold of the backing. And neither had Aziraphale.

It wasn't even as old as it was trying to look. It was still quite new, relatively speaking. Until more decades passed, the set was downright _tacky_.

But it had snakes carved into the table legs. And cherubs. The snakes were resting curled up on the cherubs' heads.

Besides, they went with the overall aesthetic Crowley tried to keep around the flat.

The demon walked up to the counter of the antique shop and threw down a bundle of money.

 **The Table, Chairs, and Throne.**  
**Fate:** _Collected. In Crowley's flat._

* * *

**The Vase.**

_Present day._

Crowley was minding his own business in a gallery, when he saw the vase he and Aziraphale had shared wine from back in Rome.

He wasn't looking for it. He didn't think to look for it. But he saw it anyway.

He could never know _for certain_ if it was the exact same vase.

But it had that same _chipped side,_ on the rim of the vase, making a little V shape.

He remembered. 41 A.D. Rome. Crowley had been hit with a particularly bad piece of news, and had gone to the nearest pub (or the equivalent) to drown his sorrows in.

"Whatever you've got that's drinkable," [*quote] he had said.

That was when Aziraphale had walked over.

This had been the first time it had been _Aziraphale_ being the first one to spot the other in a crowd and walk over. He could have just avoided him, but he didn't. You remember moments like that.

And now, literally thousands of years later, the vase stood on a white, rectangular pillar, encased in glass.

The gallery's curator walked by. Crowley stopped them.

"What's the price of that vase there?" asked Crowley.

 **The Vase.**  
**Fate:** _Collected. In Crowley's flat._

If Crowley was asked about why he was so keen on collecting art, he would have said, _I just like how these look,_ with a shrug. _That's all._

But art's never as simple as that, is it?


	2. The Three Statues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do feel bad for the several-month-long wait for this chapter. A lot has happened during 2020, and I needed to pause fanfic-writing. But I should have the third, final chapter posted within a fortnight from now. Enjoy.

**The Sketch of Crowley and Aziraphale, and the Mona Lisa.**

_Present Day._

Crowley, in a bout of _genuine wisdom_ , had actually kept Leonardo's sketch of the Mona Lisa.

It hung on one of the wall of Crowley's flat. It must have been worth a fortune by this point, but Crowley was not selling. When you're a demon, the temptation of being given vast quantities of money isn't exactly a strong temptation.

 _However_ , the sketch reminded him of another da Vinci original.

A sketch of himself and Aziraphale in Florence, Italy.

Crowley wasn't sure who it was that commissioned the art, but he could remember that sketch vividly. Aziraphale's ruffled collar. Crowley's black velvet suit. _My hair was longer then, wasn't it?_ thought Crowley.

The angel had introduced Crowley to the artist, and the two of them ended up getting on famously.

He already had the Mona Lisa sketch, but...

Oh, what the Hell? He'd do it. Making human lives miserable may have been a full-time job, but doing _nothing but that_ would be so tedious. Everyone needs a hobby.

* * *

Someone had gone and _split_ the sketch in two.

After hours of online research, Crowley had found the da Vinci sketch.

Or rather, he had found _fifty-percent_ of the da Vinci sketch.

 _Who? Who was the idiot? Probably someone from our lot..._ Crowley tapped a finger to his desk, the tiny sound echoing into the emptiness of the flat. A flat that was feeling more and more empty by the day.

Crowley finished composing the email to the owner. He pressed Send. He didn't worry about whether the receiver would accept his offer or not. Crowley knew they would.

Crowley frowned. Well, at least he was able to get the part that contained the important bit.

 _My suit back then might have looked a lot worse than how I remember it anyway_ , he thought.

 **The Sketch of Crowley and Aziraphale, and the Mona Lisa.**  
**Fate:** _One and a half sketches lost, one and a half collected. In Crowley's flat._

* * *

**The Illustrated Bible, circa 17th century.**

The illustration of Eve's Temptation By the Serpent wasn't exactly the most historically-accurate--they never were, it seemed. _Always seemed to get something wrong. Something off._ \--but it was one of the few illustrations that seemed to get everything right about the Serpent of Eden.

The right size, the right. They even got his snake nose right--Aziraphale and the demon would often poke fun at some of the _less accurate_ snake renditions.

It was as if the artist was _there_... and then was blindfolded once it was Eve's turn to get painted.

The tome was being sold by an individual Crowley hadn't spoken to before. He vaguely wondered whether this man was ear-marked for Above or Below. But at the end of the day, it didn't really matter to Crowley. They were just two sides to the Great Cosmic Whatsit.

Crowley pecked some numbers into his mobile. He brought it to his ear.

After a few rings, there was an answer.

"Yes? Hullo?" The voice on the other line was the kind of posh voice that makes one think of monocles and bouffant moustaches.

"The illustrated manuscript? Oh, I'm afraid I can't sell it to you."

"If your asking price for it is a lot, don't worry about that." said Crowley. There was no reply from the other man. "I'm rich," Crowley added after a pause. "Absolutely _flushed_."

"I'm sorry young man," and Crowley scoffed at that, "but I'm afraid you're just too late. The manuscript has already been sold. Money has changed hands and everything."

 _Figures_ , thought Crowley. Couldn't just be a simple thing. He'd need to pull out all the stops for this one. He'd need to pull up his demonic sleeves and--

"Sold to a rare book collector," continued the voice. And Crowley's ears metaphorically perked at that.

"And who is this rare book collector?" asked Crowley.

The collector told him.

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh well.

Of course it would be him. No wonder Crowley had so much trouble obtaining this book.

The demon said his Thank yous and his Goodbyes, and ended the call. His mobile phone landed on the table.

Crowley scratched this off as a draw. He didn't _win_ the art. But he didn't exactly _lose_ it.

He _could_ see it any time he wanted, more or less.

 **The Illustrated Bible, circa 17th century.**  
**Fate:** _In Aziraphale's bookshop._

* * *

**The Wrestling Statue.**

The wrestling statue was created by an unknown artist, at an estimated time, at a guesstimated place.

It depicted a fallen angel and an angel wrestling, with the fallen angel triumphing, symbolising the struggle between Good and Evil. It was modelled after another statue, _The Wrestlers_ , a lost original Hellenistic bronze of the third century B.C.E.

But none of that was of vital importance to Crowley. He hadn't been there when it was first constructed. So there was no emotional significance to the piece.

No. What was important to Crowley was that if the light from the window at the end of the hall hit the statue _just right_ , he could picture the faces differently.

"You sure they're wrestling?"

"Sir?" said the collector.

And so it was that, once again, by pure chance, Crowley had found another spot of art to add to his personal collection.

But is it _really_ "pure chance" if you're a supernatural being who keeps going to various art exhibitions? Or is that just hedging your bets?

Crowley asked what the price was for the statue. The collector said there wasn't one. Why have one when you have no plans of selling?

He _may_ have snapped his fingers. He _may_ have influenced the collector into giving him a number. No harm in that.

 **The Wrestling Statue.**  
**Fate:** _Collected. In Crowley's flat._

* * *

**The Statue of an Angel Wrestling a Snake.**

The statue was located at Tadfield Manor, the convent for the Chattering Order of St. Beryl. It was arguable as to whether is _was_ an angel wrestling a large serpent--the statue resembled _Laocoön and His Sons_ \--but to Crowley, it was an angel.

Crowley spotted the statue when he had delivered the Antichrist. He had been in a bit of a rush at the time, but he still remembered it.

The demon had tried to get the statue from St Beryl's, but he failed in his endeavours for two reasons.

Firstly, because it was too big for his flat.

And secondly, Hell would not have been happy to find out that Crowley was meddling with Satanic nuns' property.

 **The Statue of an Angel Wrestling a Snake.**  
**Fate:** _In St. Beryl's of the Chattering Order (*spelling?)_

* * *

**Statue of an Angel.**

_Milan, Italy, 1492._

It was the most beautiful statue he had ever seen.

Leonardo had invited Crowley to his artist studio some time ago. And Crowley, all to happy to see more of the artist's work, accepted it. What he found there, he did not expect.

Among the chisels, drapes, and slabs of stone, there was a pale statue of an angel.

The figure was sitting against stone, its wings resting, clothed in cloth. Crowley was alway impressed by how stone could be chiselled to look like something as soft as fabric.

The statue was life-size in scale, and it looked _alive_. Through the darkness, Crowley thought he could see the statue _breathe_.

This was the first--and only--time Crowley would sneak into the studio in the dead of night to see it again.

He stepped closer, wanting to look at the details closely.

The angel had short curls in its hair. Like Aziraphale's.

Crowley placed a hand on the angel's shoulder, closing the distance.

Because the figure was elevated, Crowley had to look up to see the angel's face. The eyes were closed, leaving the mouth with an expression that Crowley found hard to place. _Serenity? Disdain? Yearning?_

Crowley rested his head on the angel's shoulder. He felt cold.

He imagined the statue with Aziraphale's face. His eyes, his cheeks, his nose.

He imagined cupping the angel's face, as tenderly as he could, leaning forward, and...

What was he doing?

Outside, he heard a dog bark. The demon vanished.

* * *

_Present Day._

He was pacing in his flat.

What would he do with the statue? He looked around his flat, trying to picture where he'd keep it. He'd have to make sure it wasn't within view of his television screen, in case Hell contacted him. You don't want your demonic co-workers to see you owning art of the Enemy, unless it was art of them being defeated.

Maybe he could keep it in his living room, next to his white sofa.

Crowley had the sudden thought of kissing the statue. He blinked.

_Where did that thought come from?_

He was not Pygmalion. He was not going to fall in love with a piece of art.

 _Well,_ he argued, _He_ was _a demon, after all. Wanting material possessions comes with the job description.Wanting material possessions that remind you of yourself, doubly-so. It was_ vain _, a fine quality in a demon._

He went to his desk, opened his laptop, and began to type with vigour.

* * *

Crowley stared, his sunglasses off and abandoned next to him on the desk.

The article was titled, _List of Famous Lost Artworks_.

Crowley's heart sank. _No..._

_**Artwork:** Statue of an Angel. **Created:** Circa 1480. **Artist:** Leonardo da Vinci **Cause of destruction:** French invasion of Milan, 1499._

Crowley rested his head on the laptop's keyboard. _It's gone. It's gone for good._

The demon's flat suddenly felt so much emptier than before.

 **Statue of an Angel.**  
**Fate:** _Lost forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review if you'd like. There's currently no comments for this one, so I have no idea what people make of this fic.
> 
> The sketch of Aziraphale and Crowley by Leonardo da Vinci is a reference to [_this illustration by artist Paul Kidby_](https://twitter.com/PaulKidby/status/1256216203045023749).


	3. The Painting, Oh The Painting

**The Painting of an Angel.**

Crowley tossed and turned in his sleep. He was slumbering in a four poster king sized bed that resided in his flat. It had silk sheets, a duvet rolled at the foot of the bed--for the colder nights--and the finest down mattress. It was a bed built for luxury.

But Crowley was not sleeping in luxury. He was dreaming an old memory.

* * *

_1939, London._

Crowley was in Victoria and Albert Museum in London. There were rumours that the museum was going to close my the end of the week. War was coming.

So he decided to pay a visit before it closed its doors.

He went alone. He and Aziraphale were still not on speaking terms.

He was just walking through the paintings area when something caught his eye.

In one gold frame, there was a painting of Aziraphale.

Not a painting of someone who _looked like_ Aziraphale. A painting of _Aziraphale himself_.

It was a to-scale portrait of the angel, wearing robes--similar in style to the ones he wore in Eden--and sitting down, the framing cutting off at his chest. An art critic would have compared the brushwork to _Girl with a Pearl Earring_. The colour scheme was mainly whites and blues, with only Aziraphale's skin providing warm colours. His robes were white, his hair looked white. The background was blue. The thin, fine lining of his robes was blue, his eyes were blue...

Those eyes. He would do anything for those blue eyes. And the realisation frightened him.

It was _beautiful_.

Crowley managed to tear his eyes away from the piece to read the information card next to it.

_Title: Unidentified Man in White. Origin: England. Circa 1880._

_"Unidentified Man in White"?!_ Crowley was appalled that they had given such a bland title to this work of art. Absolutely _appalled_. A painting like this deserved something more. Much more.

He read on.

_Artist Unknown. There has been much speculation as to why the man is wearing robes, giving the piece a romantic, anachronistic tone. The background gives no clues as to whether this portrait is meant to depict the 1880s--when the painting was created--or an earlier era, such and ancient Greece._

Crowley had a thousand questions. Who was this artist? How had they met Aziraphale? Why did Aziraphale pose for a portrait?

Crowley didn't know. He wasn't awake during the 1880s.

After Aziraphale had stormed away from Crowley back in 1862, Crowley decided to sleep. For several decades.

He woke up, adjusted to the times, saw the new sites, and then he heard the rumours of war.

Crowley had ended up joining the Allies in their war efforts. He was good at it. He had developed quite a reputation. _"You're a miracle worker, Anthony,"_ as one of his fellow operatives put it.

But what had _Aziraphale_ done all those years while Crowley was asleep and dead to the world?

* * *

_Present Day._

Crowley woke with a start. He sat up, tangled in the dark sheets.

There was a trace of the dream left in his memory as he woke. He remembered the Painting.

The eyes. It was the eyes that got him. Got him right through his being. Right through his essence. Right through his _heart_. They were a striking blue. Perfectly captured from the real thing.

Crowley closed his eyes and went through the motions of trying to remember where and when he last saw the painting.

1939... The Victoria and Albert Museum... Fast forward...

After the outbreak of World War II, most of the collection from the Victoria and Albert Museum was temporarily sent to be hidden in one of three places: A quarry in Wiltshire, Montacute House in Somerset, and in a hidden tunnel next to Aldwych tube station.

Crowley since had been with Aziraphale to Victoria and Albert Museum. Frequently. The Painting hadn't been returned.

Therefore, Crowley argued, the Painting was moved to one of those three places, and then taken _somewhere else_.

He just needed to narrow down his three leads.

Crowley flung away the bedsheets and got out of bed.

* * *

Well, the answer was surprisingly simple.

It was a painting. You probably don't want to keep it somewhere damp and unkempt, like a hole in the ground. Damp, dark places grow mold. You've got to think about the canvas and paintwork. So that ruled out the quarry and the underground tunnel. Which meant...

The Painting was sent to Montacute House. Somerset.

 _Wahoo. Solved it,_ thought Crowley congratulatory.

The demon pulled out his mobile phone. He had calls to make.

He hoped the Painting wasn't lost. Oh, he _really_ hoped the Painting wasn't lost.

* * *

Crowley sat exhausted at his red marble table, his face buried in his hands.

The Painting _had_ been sent to Montacute House. And then given to a collector. A _private_ collector. Anonymously bought, with no records.

Why oh _why_ didn't he take the Painting when he had the chance?

He could have simply _asked_ Aziraphale about the Painting. But that was risky. If the question, _Why do you want a painting of me?_ was raised, Crowley would not have known how to answer it.

He had come to a dead end.

Maybe he should stop, he thought. He was becoming obsessed with this one portrait.

But he dismissed the thought. He was a demon. He was allowed to be greedy for material objects.

There was another avenue he could try for finding the Painting's location. In the art sphere, humans had their own underworld, after all.

* * *

After a lot of back and forth chats with some shady art dealers, Crowley discovered that not only was the Painting still in existence--owned by a rich English philanthropist--but that it was in the process of being donated.

To the British Museum.

From one museum to another. Crowley could almost laugh.

"To the Bentley!" he said aloud to his empty flat.

* * *

"Yes, I'm here to see the museum director," said Crowley breezily, leaning back and forth in his snakeskin shoes.

He was told to hold on an moment, so he stood by the front desk and waited.

* * *

The museum director walked Crowley to the new edition to the British Museum.

The Painting.

_Aziraphale..._

"This is _Unidentified Man in White_. It was given to us by--"

"How much?" said Crowley quickly. "How much to buy this piece?"

"Sir, this is not for sale."

"Money is _no object_." He could just miracle up the funds needed.

"Sir, this piece is unequally _not_ for a private collection. It was donated to us in good faith by Mister Fothergill Rowbottom, who inherited the piece and wanted it to be shared by the public."

_"Shared by the public"?!_

Crowley _could_ have used force. He could have used his demonic powers. Could have forced the director to just _give_ him the Painting. All he had to do was snap his fingers...

And yet...

"Let them," he said finally.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Let them. Let them have it."

He couldn't believe the words falling from his mouth, but there they were.

He was glad his eyes were hidden by his sunglasses.

 _"Shared by the public"..._ Maybe historic art of Aziraphale was _meant_ to be public.

 _I mean,_ thought Crowley, _He's certainly not mine._

As the museum director walked away--confused as to what the man wearing shades meant by his words--Crowley noticed that the information card next to _Unidentified Man in White_ had been updated. He read it.

 _Take a moment to let the blue of this piece sink in. Whilst incredibly rare in nature, blue is a popular colour--chosen by almost half the population at their favourite colour. Perhaps the painter of_ Unidentified Man in White _chose the colour blue as a focus because of its rarity, illustrating that the man in the portrait is exceptional. But in what way?_

_Perhaps the artist wished to present the unidentified man as an intellectual or a prophet, able to see the world with clarity. Many cultures associate blue with clarity and wisdom, yet there is nothing clear about blue at all. It is a colour created by illusions._

_The man's eyes are a striking blue. In nature, blue eyes do not contain blue pigment. They appear blue from light refraction. Just as the sky appears blue from reflected air particles, and the sea from reflecting the sky._

_Looking out at the horizon, we see the ocean as blue. Cupping the saltwater in our hands, it appears clear. Blue appears to us when we are far enough away to see the big picture. Blue is our desire to push beyond our own limitations, to pursue knowledge and understanding. The unknown man smiles knowingly and comfortingly at us._

_Blue represents our ability to see meaning and our search for meaning. And while it almost never appears organically in nature, it does appear in_ humanity _. In how we perceive the world--in our eyes, the sky, the sea, and the Earth we inhabit: The "blue" planet._

_And this is perhaps what makes blue the most human colour._

* * *

Crowley walked out of museum, slowly and thoughtfully down the front steps, his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows concerned.

The British Museum is the second most popular museum in London, losing only to Tate Modern in yearly visitors. If you wanted a lot of eyes on a piece of modern art, the British Museum was a good place for it to be.

And Crowley realised this.

The humans won this round. _I give up. You beat me, humanity. I'm not taking it. Keep the Painting._

Crowley kind of... _liked_ the idea of the painting being in a museum. Of so many people finally appreciating art of Aziraphale that really looked like _him_ and not some warped image of what they _thought_ an angel looked like.

On certain evenings, when Aziraphale and Crowley got drunk in _just_ the right way, Aziraphale would begin talking about how the other angels treated him and spoke to him.

Crowley would listen. And he wouldn't like what he heard. At all.

If Aziraphale was going to receive any proper appreciation from someone besides Crowley, it certainly wasn't going to be from Gabriel or the other pricks from Heaven. Perhaps visitors of the British Museum would be a better candidate.

Crowley felt... proud. Proud for the angel he knew since the Beginning. The angel who risked _so much_ to give his sword away as an act of compassion towards the two humans who had been cast out of the Garden. Crowley felt _proud_ at the idea of people going, _Who is that mysterious man in the painting?_

So then, why did he also feel terribly _sad_ about the whole thing?

* * *

Crowley had left the radio on in the Bentley. He did not recognise the song, but Regina Spektor's _Blue Lips_ was playing.

_"He stumbled into faith and thought,"_  
_"God, this is all there is..."_

The demon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to gather his thoughts. The light piano continued to play.

_"Blue lips... Blue veins..."_  
_"Blue... The colour of our planet from far, far away..."_

_Blue eyes... Blue eyes..._ thought Crowley.

He was conflicted. Ever since remembering the Painting, he had begun to ask the Why of it all: _Why_ was he doing this? Why expend _so much_ time and energy collecting baubles?

_"Blue... the most human colour..."_  
_"Blue... the most human colour..."_

Because they weren't baubles. Not to him.

They were Art. But, more than that, they were Important Art.

But why were only _these_ pieces so important?

And that was when Crowley had to swallow the bitter truth. The art was Important because it represented his relationship with Aziraphale. That was the art's distinction. Nothing else. Not the historical significance to humanity, but the historical significance to _him and Aziraphale_.

And the Painting. _Unidentified Man in White_. The reason why he was growing consumed by it was because he wanted to know what he had _slept through_. The time he'd missed Aziraphale after their argument with the holy water.

He wanted to find a way to _recover_ that lost time.

But it was impossible. Nothing could wind back the clock. That time he wasted without Aziraphale was lost forever. Like the statue of Aziraphale.

He just had the now. And that was _okay_ , he realised. He could make new memories with Aziraphale.

* * *

Crowley stepped out of the Bentley. He was just outside St. James's Park.

 _Besides,_ he thought. If he wanted to find out what he'd missed all those years ago, he could simply _ask_.

He took out his mobile. He pressed the Call button.

He held it up to his ear and waited for the click.

"Angel..."

 **The Painting of an Angel, aka _Unidentified Man in White_.**  
**Fate:** _In the British Museum._

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, please.
> 
> This fic was inspired by _What's So Great About That?'s_ video essay on the colour blue. You can watch the essay on [her YouTube channel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyVbdyAPkqA).


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